


Honey, I'm Home

by NoisyNoiverns



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9290366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoisyNoiverns/pseuds/NoisyNoiverns
Summary: General Oraka's drunken misadventure in 2183 brings about a conversation he'd rather avoid.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "u can't have an oc for oraka's husband," they said  
> "what about sha'ira," they said  
>  _"witness me,"_ i said
> 
> i've been meaning to write this 5ever and non-shepard ships week gave me the motivation

Vice Admiral Vartus Oraka was old. One hundred and twenty-seven years, to be specific. So old, his great-grandchildren were too big to be carried everywhere, and his friends in the Imperial Navy were making jokes about his retirement party. The dark brown facial plates that used to draw appreciative looks were bleached almost entirely white by the passage of time, the spread going nearly to the edges of his brow plate and just beginning to creep out onto his zygomatic horns. He’d repelled countless incursions into turian space, stood toe-to-toe with murderers and walked away unscathed, even rallied fleets against a new species. He’d been married and divorced and married again, he’d been all over the galaxy to find where was home, he’d held a miracle in his arms and called it _son._ He liked to think he’d led a life to be sung of, and he liked to think there was nothing left in the galaxy to surprise him.

Every now and then, though, the galaxy liked to challenge that notion.

Words spun in his head as he plodded his way through the Wards, trying to arrange themselves into the exact right combination for asking his husband what the _fuck_ had happened while he was away on deployment. He’d only been gone a few months, just a short trip to escort high-profile diplomats to and from the homeworld and a few of the major colonies. He was rarely called out into the field these days, his high rank exempting him from the most common missions, and that was how he liked it. It gave the universe fewer chances to try to pull the rug out from beneath his talons.

Which was exactly what had happened a few weeks ago, when his daughter had called him and informed him, with no shortage of distressed subvocals, that his mate had done _something_ while very drunk, but had refused to tell her what it was.

In the apartment building, some neighbors waved or nodded, most turians bowed or saluted depending on whether or not they were in uniform, and a few gave him looks that he strongly suspected meant they knew what Septimus had gotten up to. Because _that_ was promising.

His mind was still whirling as he keyed in the code for the door. What did he ask? How much should he pry? Was it really _that_ important? How did he even broach the subject? “Septimus, I’m home,” he called, and the words sounded hollow and distant to him.

“In the kitchen,” came the answer, and Vartus dropped his duffel bag at the door, shrugged off his cloak, and drifted after it.

Septimus was elbows-deep in groceries when Vartus walked in, mandibles flicking back and forth. “Perfect timing, Varti,” he said, his subvocals rumbling welcome. “The asari down the hall just helped me bring these in. You can help put them away.”

Vartus raised a brow plate. “I just remembered, I forgot a few things on my ship.”

Septimus lowered his mandibles and snorted at him, then waved a hand. “Very funny. Come on, don’t make me pull rank.”

Vartus shook his head and went to dig around in the bag nearest him. “For one thing, you’re army, I’m navy. Different ranking systems. For another, we’re at the same pay level.”

Septimus shrugged, carefully balancing a small tower of neatly-wrapped meats against his chest. “Yes, but I have two years on you. I’m senior officer here.”

“Maybe so, but I’m three years older than you.” He reached over and opened the refrigerator for him.

Septimus nodded and rumbled a grateful subvocal, then meandered over to the fridge to start putting the meat away. “That just means I was promoted before you, which means _I’m_ the better officer.”

“That sounds like a _challenge,_ Septimus,” Vartus mused, pulling out a few canisters of dried herbs and spices. “Please don’t tell me you were planning on making your mother’s chili recipe again.”

“Well, not _tonight,”_ Septimus harrumphed. “I was going to wait until the kids came up for Trilan’s birthday next weekend.”

“Oh, _that’s_ a wonderful gift. ‘Happy birthday, son, eat this food that will literally sear the nerves off your tongue.’”

 _“Trilan_ likes my cooking.”

 _“Trilan_ has a gizzard made of scrap iron.” Vartus shook his head and pulled a few cans of soup out of the bag, then folded it neatly and set it aside. “Which he gets from _your_ side of the family, I might add.”

Septimus closed the fridge, then closed the gap between them with a step. “You complain too much,” he chided, tapping their nasal plates together.

Vartus rolled his eyes and gave him a friendly hip-check, Septimus laughed, and they lapsed into a companionable silence as they put away more groceries. With two of them working, the pile of food quickly dwindled, and the less work they had left, the more Vartus’s mind edged back towards his daughter’s call. He should bring it up soon, he knew, but how?

“Vartus?”

He jumped, startled out of his contemplation, and took a deep breath to steady himself. “Yes?” he asked, trying to seem nonchalant.

Septimus’s eyes were drilling holes in the back of his head. “You’re more reserved than usual. Did something happen on deployment?”

Vartus froze, then exhaled slowly. Well, there was _that_ problem solved… “I’m not sure,” he hedged. “Nexaris called me, a few weeks back.”

Now it was Septimus’s turn to stiffen. Vartus couldn’t hear his breathing, usually rasping and distinct after years of abusing his lungs bellowing at recruits. Choosing to take that as an indication Septimus knew _exactly_ what their youngest had had to say, he pressed, “She told me you were drunk out of your mind and were going on about _something,_ but you wouldn’t tell her what you’d done.”

Septimus’s subvocals hit him like a wave- _anxious embarrassed guilty_. “Ah, _that,”_ he mumbled. “Well…”

Vartus turned to face him, folding his arms under his keel, and Septimus sighed. “It’s embarrassing, really,” he admitted. “You have to understand, Vartus, I was _very_ drunk.”

“I seem to recall you doing a lot of embarrassing things while drunk, Septimus,” he said dryly, leaning back against the counter. “What was it this time?”

Septimus grimaced and looked away, neck flushing a faint blue. _“Well,_ ” he said, “I may or may not have visited the asari consort and asked her out, and then gotten angry when she rejected me and made it look like she betrayed the trust of other clients.”

Vartus blinked, long and slow, his mandibles moving in and out. Then he simply said, “That’s a new one.”

“I _told_ you I was drunk,” Septimus groused, folding his arms.

“Still, the _consort,_ Septimus? I thought you weren’t even _interested_ in asari.”

“I’m _not,_ ” Septimus groaned, reaching up to cover his face with one hand. “I was _that drunk._ You weren’t here, and some old friends from the army came by, we had a few drinks…”

“… and ‘a few drinks’ turned into _that_. I’ll admit, Septimus, I’m impressed.”

Septimus heaved a sigh. “I _missed_ you, Vartus. It’s been a long time since you were gone that long. I got… lonelier than I expected.”

Vartus tilted his head, humming a sympathetic subvocal. “I missed you, too, Septimus,” he said, pushing himself away from the counter and ambling over to him. Taking his hands, he touched their frontal plates together and asked, “Why didn’t you just call me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you.” Septimus’s subvocals rang with shame. “I knew you were busy, and didn’t want you to have to take time away from your mission to talk to me.”

Vartus considered this, then dropped his husband’s hands so he could pull him into a hug instead. “I’m touched,” he murmured, “but you don’t have to worry about that. I always have time for you.”

A note of relief weaved its way through the shame now, and Vartus lifted his mandibles as Septimus returned the hug. “Come on,” he said, bumping the side of his head against Septimus’s, “let’s see if we can catch the clawball match. I heard a rumor the playoffs are going to be close this year.”


End file.
